


The Fox and The Hound

by greygerbil



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham notices his age is showing when his hair starts to turn grey. Charles reassures him that the years have not diminished his attractiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fox and The Hound

**Author's Note:**

> Written for two prompts on the kinkmeme, one which wanted Charles Lee appreciation (his "way with words" Haytham commented on in the game) and the other which wanted Haytham worried about his greying hair.

Haytham turned the lantern and took another long look at the mirror, then cocked his head, hoping that if the light wasn’t changing the effect, then the angle might. However, it helped nothing. He combed his fingers through his hair, holding the evidence in his hand.

The brown of his hair was starting to look less like chestnut and more like salt and pepper.

He frowned and tried not to notice how deep the trenches were that the look dug into his face. Come to think of it, when he’d arrived in Boston a good fifteen years ago (was it really that long already!), he remembered that he had not been out of breath once he’d made his way to the top of a church, a luxury which he could not claim anymore, as he’d noticed this very day.

There was a knock at the door. Happy to be drawn from this silly, fruitless occupation, he bound his hair again, took the walk down the short hallway of the two-story house he had rented and opened the door to the sound of rain and a well-known sight.

“Haytham. A pleasure to see you as always,” Charles Lee said, bowing his head.

Haytham stood aside.

“Come in before you drown.”

Only when the door was shut once more did he kiss his lover on the cold lips, tasting rain. Two of Charles’ beloved dogs of the small and shaggy persuasion, looking only half their size with their fluffy puffs of fur as soaking wet with November rain as their owners’ clothes, splattered water on the wooden floor as they shot past him. The dogs were an inescapable part of Charles and though their insistent high-pitched yapping sometimes made him want to employ his hidden blade, Haytham was willing to tolerate them. The fact that Charles had moved back into the colonies after too long years apart would have let him be lenient about pet cows camping in his parlour.

“I would embrace you, but I might need a change of clothes first,” Charles said, drawing back and wiping his rain-wet face.

“You may borrow something of mine, provided we find anything in my wardrobe that is fashionable enough for your tastes,” Haytham teased Charles as he led him up the creaking stairs. Charles’ tailored clothes were a handy target for quite a few jests, but then, Haytham would never go quite as far as to suggest Charles drop the vain habit; of all the vices a man could have, it was at least one that was pleasing to Haytham’s eyes.

“I fear I will not be able to make any of your outfits look quite as good as you do,” Charles said smoothly.

Haytham chuckled and merely shook his head.

Despite the fact that he expected to have him undressed on his bed by the end of the evening, Haytham was enough of a gentleman not to leer when Charles worked his way out of the wet clothes. He studied a book from his own collection and looked up just in time to see Charles tuck a bit of expense fabric of a white shirt into the dark leather trousers he’d chosen. Strange – Haytham thought it was quite a snug fit on himself, and he and Charles had always had much the same stature.

But then, while Haytham had not allowed himself to go soft, perhaps his body had settled a slight bit in a way that was hard to avoid when the years piled on. As evidenced by his hair, his family had always aged a bit earlier, while Charles, nearing the end of his thirties and fresh from half a dozen conflicts, still had a muscular soldier’s body and hair as black as coal (though with a bit more forehead visible than ten years ago, which was at least some consolation).

“What is it?”

“What?”

“You were looking at me. Did I pick something you did not want to share?”

“No, nothing.” Haytham straightened Charles’ collar, his thumb brushing affectionately over his cheek on the way. “Let us go downstairs. There is matters to discuss regarding the _incident_ we have planned.”

They found their way back into his study, where next to the small mirror on the desk laid a stack of letters, communication with others from the Order who helped further their momentary plans in their own ways from different corners of the country and of the world.

“The timing would be perfect right now,” Charles said.

“But it’s hard to force the public’s hand in these things. There has to be enough fire in them to feed the spark we light.”

“Yes, quite right.” Charles glanced out of the window. “It struck me immediately when I left the ship. They are so very proud of their freedom here, are they not? They won’t follow an idea that they do not believe comes from the confused mind of the masses, whatever that really constitutes. But that should make it easy to give them a hint.”

“All it needs to create a rift by this point is an excuse, yes. We have to keep our eyes open for an opportunity, but we cannot afford to be too obvious,” Haytham cautioned. Sitting at his desk, he glanced at the mirror again, then frowned and placed it on the ground, where it might reflect the decay of his boots instead of that of his own person.

“Did you decode a message?”

Haytham had to laugh. “Something a little more unnecessary than that. I... thought I had seen a few grey hairs.”

“Ah, yes.”

Somewhat taken aback, Haytham looked at his lover. “Yes?”

“I noticed your hair had changed when I came back to the country a few weeks ago,” Charles elaborated, apparently unconcerned. 

“Well. Awfully charming of you to notice.”

That had sounded a little more insulted than he’d planned on. Perhaps he was a bit spoiled, Haytham realised. He’d always thought himself quite untouched by Charles’ flattery. After all, he was very aware that the man could talk his way into most anyone’s good graces – and it usually had little to do with the actual worth of the person. But while Charles now spoke up against his plans or ideas from time to time if he found he had something intelligent to add, Haytham would still be showered with compliments and reverence whenever it came to his own person. It was unprecedented that Charles would feed even a small doubt in such a matter of vanity.

Right now, Charles looked at him like he doubted Haytham’s reason, which, truth be told, was not too surprising.

“It is a very fitting look for you,” he said, finally.

Now he _was_ insulted. “For an old man, you mean?”

“You are fourty-five years old.”

“Yes, I am aware. Unfortunately, my hair is not.”

Charles couldn’t quite hold back a smile, making Haytham feel especially foolish.

“Your hair looks fine, Haytham. It is not receeding, it is not thinning, it is just a different colour. Think of,” he paused briefly and gestured, “of foxes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Foxes. The truly treasured ones are those with a silver pelt. The rest is for the poachers to use to make bags out of. You could say there is something of nobility about the colour.”

“How on earth did your mind jump to foxes now, Charles?”

“Because dogs - and their owners - like to chase after them.”

Charles gave a winning smile and Haytham had to laugh. Charles was good, no question. He knew exactly what the younger man was doing and it still worked.

“So, is this truly about your hair? That is unlike you.”

“If you can fuss over your clothes every damned day, Charles, I can have my moments as well.” He shook his head slightly. “But it is also the fact that I have been in this infernal country for fifteen years with no sign of the precursor cave while waiting for this dull populace of sheep to stop their useless bleeting and be ready to move into an action that is ten years overdue and quite inevitable in any case. I suppose I hoped we’d be done with this part before I was old and grey.”

“Grey and wiser,” Charles corrected him. “Our patience and careful planning will be rewarded soon enough, I’m sure of it. In the meantime...”

Charles rose from his chair, gingerly stepping over a dog that had placed itself in his way, and sat on the edge of the desk next to Haytham’s arm, placing a hand on his wrist, a youthful twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“I believe I should make myself more clear about my feelings for you even after all these years, if – if you’d allow me,” he said, emulating the excited tone and over-eager stammer that he had fallen into so many years ago, like he’d just met him on the Boston pier.

Haytham smiled.

“Alright, Charles. Make your jokes, I derserve it.”

Haytham still welcomed Charles’ mouth on his own as he pulled the Major onto his lap and Charles sank his fingers into Haytham’s hair, loosening the tie, the kiss soon passionate, his arms tight around Haytham’s neck. Haytham ran his hands over his sides and rested them on his thighs as he gently bit Charles’ lower lip, the way he knew Charles liked it. They broke the kiss slightly breathless.

“Jokes? Perhaps some of us prefer older, more experienced gentlemen to green boys,” Charles said quietly, and added, with a smile, the way he used to say it: “Master Kenway.”

Haytham silenced Charles’ talented mouth with another kiss. _A silver fox._ Perhaps he might be able to get used to that thought.


End file.
